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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453998">white walls and prison doors</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommyinnit/pseuds/tommyinnit'>tommyinnit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), SCP Foundation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - SCP Foundation, Dramatic Wilbur Soot, First Meetings, Gen, Science Fiction, Tags May Change, brought to you by ten cans of cola and a fuck ton of cocaine, child labour pog, i explore a lot of different dynamics, thank god the ethics committee doesn't exist... right?, wilbur canonically fucked a scp fish lady</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:55:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,615</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453998</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommyinnit/pseuds/tommyinnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Knowing Dream, he'd probably try and use it against Scott or even Phil just to eliminate some <em>pawns</em> for him from ascending to the top. Sure, he’ll catch some heat for that but it’s a matter that deserves absolute privacy away from grubby claws and silver tongues. He just needs to call Phil, tell him the news, and hope that the Foundation doesn’t collapse in the next month."</p><p>-</p><p>an obligatory SCP au with a lot more melodrama and family angst than expected.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>No Romantic Relationship(s), Scott | Smajor1995 | Dangthatsalongname &amp; Phil Watson, Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>122</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>first two chapters betaread by nick and c0ssus they are so epic and lovely i love them dudes !!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Exhausted, the boy slumps back further into his room wall, his arms bandaged and morale bruised. Hugging himself tightly, he shifts on the duvet of the containment cell lifelessly, his eyes glassy and distant.</p><p>It’s been a week since he’s been revoked of his vagrant title and scrubbed clean of the city pavement’s dirt and grime. Though his new environment is vastly better than the tough love of the streets, the blonde still hasn’t fully acclimated to his small little room, glaring at it as if it’d scratch off into glum alleyways and ugly brick houses.</p><p>The boy’s name is Thomas, or his more nicer sobriquet, Tommy. Due to a recent incident where he’d received a gift that led to the entirety of Birmingham’s commercial district to be wiped off the map, he was now under Foundation custody as an SCP. As a researcher, Tubbo has been tasked to investigate further into his anomalous properties. See what makes him tick, or figure the reason or rhyme to him. It’s a fancier way of saying to poke him with a stick, leave him alone for a few minutes, and see what happens next.</p><p>However, there is a slight problem. There’s really nothing to poke at.</p><p>Physically, he’s pretty typical albeit very malnourished. He’s a standard human teen. He’s fifteen, caucasian, thin blonde hair, thin frame and of a tall stature, lean and battered from years of vagrancy. Psychological evaluations indicate a slight bit of emotional trauma (a result Tubbo had anticipated), but the abnormality evaluations suggested nothing atypical. The field agent’s investigation suggested nothing peculiar either. He’s a runaway, lives on the streets, petty thief, and capricious, etcetera.</p><p>In all honesty, Tubbo would’ve reckoned he’d waste away on the streetwalk before ever setting foot into a standard Humanoid containment chamber, but unfortunately, Tommy over here had the misfortune of having his secret Santa being a really shitty gift-bearer that it makes lame Christmas sweaters seem precious. </p><p>Whatever. Tubbo’s not gonna complain about it. It less complicates his work and gives him more time to work on his other projects. Plus he’s less likely to die here if they accept his revision of the precautionary measures needed, which is honestly the biggest blessing anyone could really ask for. The only real qualm Tubbo has is that it’ll get boring quick.</p><p>His person cleaned from grime and dust, Tommy looks like a brand new person. Tommy inspects himself with intense melancholy as if mourning, and Tubbo felt the boy’s frail fingers pull on his heartstrings.</p><p>The first time Tubbo had seen the boy was when he was transported in. He was struggling against his constraints and the agents wrangling him, his pretty blonde hair a matted mess and his torn lip quivering. High on adrenaline, he tried to tear himself away from the armed guards but to his chagrin, the guards have seen more food than he has in the past month. Tubbo could identify a warning to handle with care as the boy bit his bottom lip to try his best to stifle his choked sobs, muttering obscenities as he struggled fruitlessly against his handcuffs.</p><p>In that moment, Tubbo felt something indescribable. He was human. Undoubtedly, unattestably, human. He intrinsically fought against what he perceived to be a threat like an animal would in the palm of a large, scary predator. He fought like anyone else would. Hell, like even Tubbo would. Lifted from the van and into the corridors, he desperately bit, kicked, screamed, struggling as the agents wrestled him, like it would’ve been the last fight of his entire life. The sheer desperation in his eyes as he screamed to be released like he was trapped in a house set ablaze with no exits, and the pained whimpers and quiet sobbing sounds of a dying star as he banged against the containment unit doors.</p><p>It was truly archaic. His tear stained face as it leaned against the metal door, begging to be let go, and the erratic breath that hitched as his fist slid down against the door before slipping away as if his entire world had caved in.</p><p>But now, sitting alone and sad in his cell, he’s not human anymore.</p><p>Tubbo sighs, planting his worried head against the drawer top. He needs to pull himself together. It’s an object, and his goal is to find out what the crap it does and record it, and if he’s lucky enough, not die. It’s not going to be pretty when he’s getting the short end of the stick for something like empathy.</p><p>He walks away from the drawers and to his desk bestrewned in papers with coffee stains and test results. There’s no time for dilly-dallying and every second he spends on this, the more it dwindles. Tubbo’s task today is simple; compile an entire document about the item, and maybe get to work on that speech he has to give during that seminar of his.</p><p>Tubbo scours his coffee stained desk for anything of use, and stumbles upon Wilbur’s infuriating report. Wilbur had royally pissed him off that day; he was way off with the containment unit needed - a SHACC-S would have sufficed as containment units aren’t just novelty items they can waste, and the object’s not hostile or mentally unstable enough to warrant either a straitjacket or a muzzle. Afterall, it’s a fifteen year old boy. Most it could do is kick your shins or insult your mother. Though it is highly unusual to be presented with this absolute hogwash given Wilbur’s past performance so perhaps he should write down and circle <em>possible cognitohazard.</em></p><p>Besides having to admonish Wilbur later for all the time he’s wasted with his garbage report, Tubbo has to record anything he discovers, and given his dyslexia, is quite the proper pain in the bum. Usually, Tubbo would delegate this task to his support staff but apparently Scott didn't deem it necessary and denied his requests, and the only other personnel they sent his way was currently on medical leave for the next two days for something as pedestrian as a cold. Aren’t they supposed to be the absolute handpicked, cream of the crop professionals?</p><p>Somehow, someway, in a facility which boasts the absolute forefront of both biomedicine and chemistry (to name a few), most of which are beyond this era - encapsulating reality in it’s own separate bubble in their own plane in which they exist, cloning humans, and medical miracles that would convince any civilian that you’re the next coming of Christ, and Junior Researcher Purpled has contracted the common cold. Tubbo might as well just trash the infirmary and research sector and set it on fire like it’s the end of the world if none of it’s good enough to cure the common cold. Honestly, screw Purpled.</p><p>Finally something good, Scott dropped by the office for a bit of chatter. Delivered some jam donuts and coffee, asked how Tubbo was doing, and gave him the test results for the item as per Tubbo’s request. He made a wisecrack that Tubbo’s finally getting it easy, and left Tubbo to himself again.</p><p>When the door slammed shut, the only thing Tubbo now had to accompany him were the ugly grey walls of his research room and the excessive amount of tables that hides it. The room itself was rather unexceptional as with anything else in this facility. There’s a few office chairs that aren’t pushed in underneath the table, and spread across every desk is machinery that talks in record static and complains in loud whirrs. Most of them are standard equipment that are must-haves to properly monitor any entity, while the muffin plushie that emits a weird ticking noise that St. Halo got him as an early birthday gift was not.</p><p>Listlessness pins his heavy hands onto his desk. It’s been approximately seventy-eight minutes that he’s wasted trying to read the vintage posters HR hung up on the walls and drinking coffee to stave off corporate ills, and zero minutes that he’s actually spent writing. He looks back at the monitor screen, and then back at all the paperwork that surrounds him, and then back at the screen.</p><p>He’s technically researching if he’s observing the object, right?</p><p>Waddling over to the monitors, he leans down and close to the screen, saxe blue light bouncing off his cheeks. Through a zoom lens, Tubbo observed that the item seems to have calmed down from its earlier breakdown and is currently talking to itself to satiate its boredom. Looks like someone else in this site is also dying from boredom. Still slowly acclimating to its little glass palace, it stands akimbo, yelling at a wall. It’s mood has clearly stabilised to something much more approachable than incoherent ramblings and hostility. However, it’s not yet adjusted enough to interview it for more information.</p><p>“How are you doing?”</p><p>He receives no response, which is to be expected as the telecom isn’t turned on.</p><p>“-Oh, how's my day been? It’s been awful. Just <em>terrible</em>, but not really ‘cause Scotts Major stopped by. Oh my god, Scotts Major. He is just oh so mean but nice. I’m just rambling right now. I’m supposed to write something - it’s about you actually! - but I’m what most people call illiterate so it’s just a pain in the arse.”</p><p>It’s still yelling at the walls but through the power of make belief and a pitless boredom, they’re actually really good friends who do everything together and they’d just met up and are talking about their day.</p><p>“I’ll make sure to write something good about you, don’t worry about it. How does <em>typical male teen</em> sound to you? Or even better - <em>freakishly tall</em>? In my opinion, they’re pretty… fl- flattering - is that the word?”</p><p>The entity has given up screaming pointlessly at the wall and is attempting to play Monopoly by itself. </p><p>“What? Wait, you don’t like it? Well, how about <em>blonde caucasian</em> then? Surely you ought to like that one. Surely.”</p><p>It picks the car token, and then next a battleship, the hat, and then the dog. Good choices.</p><p>“Not that either? My god. You’re really quite the picky person, aren’t you.”</p><p>Upon casting the die, it bounces against the concrete floor and underneath it’s bed, sending the item for a mad dash after it. Forgetting about the paperwork he needs to prepare by next week, he watches it play, comically emoting to every move it made. Slowly, Tubbo lost interest and soon slumped back down into his chair, diving face first into a sea of document and paperwork.</p><p>Tubbo sighs. It’s going to be a while.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With seven years spent with an organisation that commonly houses godless entities that could tear the sky asunder, scientific curiosities that’s insanity can only be made sense of by mad men, and after Wilbur’s upsetting recounting of how he’d obtained Fundy, Scott had thought that there was absolutely nothing that could leave him bewildered. Nothing could seriously top that. Usually the element of surprise starts to fade away after your first year, and as the years go by, you watch your ability to be surprised suddenly rust into a quiet, disappointed sigh.</p><p>In short, Assistant Site Director Scott thought he could never be surprised anymore, until he was.</p><p>The frigid air nipped at his skin already alight from the blistering cold, making the march towards the payphone a lot less tolerable. The city had transformed from warm orange hues and pumpkin patches to take on a more festive motif; a tall pinewood tree stands proudly in the middle of the city center and the Christmas spirit cavorted around the city premise, dolling up every door with lush wreaths and rose-cheeked carollers. With how lovely the town had been decorated and how festivity frolicked among the cobblestone pathway, you could almost hear Father Christmas shed a tear at their dedication. However, the Christmas spirit had up and died with the fairy lights as midnight rolled around, and Scott was left with it's posthumous droll of serenity and glum - a tall, ominous tree that used to sparkle in red and green that stood up like a gravestone, and winds howling like a banshee stalked by the empty shops once bursting with patrons. Even the Foundation's usually pain offices looked more inviting than the empty streets nearby, and that is never a good sign.</p><p>Despite the disappointment, Scott wasn't here to sight see. The real reason he'd forced himself to march out from the temperate walls of Site-14 and into the cold and vacant streets of Bakersfield was simple.</p><p>In his hand holds a creased orange folder, bold red letters written in bleeding ink dipped under Scott’s finger as the paper begins to fold into the center like the formation of a star due to the amount of pressure which was exerted onto the folder. Even if Scott would like to brush it off as something slight (in truth, he'd wish it most definitely was so he could avoid doing anything he was about to do), he'd have to admit it was a little bit of a big deal. Like the life-changing sort. Though he’d obtain the information, and in tandem folder, through a questionably legal method, it’s his now. At least the corporeal copy; the virtual document would have to wait before Scott could appropriately strike it from any clever teen's eyes. Hidden between two thin pieces of orange kraft paper was something that he’d thought would only ever happen in fiction but given his work, it’s too unrealistic not to be real.</p><p>And for that reason, he needed to sneak away from the three people conversation of phone lines of the ever paranoid Foundation and into an old payphone booth far, far away, hidden within the grassy outskirts of the eternally lovely Bakersfield, on deaths door but still alive and kicking, operational enough for Scott to pay Phil an anonymous phone call informing him about the news he'd just secretly purloin. He'll return the document soon enough. Confidentiality is often a commodity only for those sat at a cushy position high, high up the echelon of the Foundation, while the rest at the bottom are left with an invasive vivisection. Scott, however, knows a few ways to dodge the scalpel that is the Foundation's all-seeing eyes.</p><p>Secrecy, as with recklessly prodding ticking time-bombs or sleeping dragons with metal sticks and death row inmates, was the Foundation's pride and joy, and as a respected member of the Foundation, he'd honour it with a demonstration of it himself. He'd wanted to keep a few unwanted eyes - Tubbo - from ever gracing this information before it spilt over to Phil's other son, still sore from the containment of both his son and partner. Dream was a wildcard, however. He'll find out about this soon enough somehow, and probably dangle it above his head like the snivelling and unscrupulous brat that he is as blackmail. Fortunately, he doesn't have anything that demon might want, so chances are he might just save it for later.</p><p>Scott, feeling his blood boil, reflects upon the silver lining. Tubbo, the lead researcher on the item, knows absolutely nothing about it, which is great for keeping a secret. Ever since his arrival, Scott had had to pen up an obituary for secrecy. His lips are loose, and any sort of confidential information, no matter how grave or serious it is, you tell him today will be bound to make rounds in the office the next day. Even HR caught wind of a small containment breach the other day, and the Security Department had to work overtime to manage this little crisis. To add on to his luck, no one on the medical team knows Wilbur enough to discuss family, except for <em>maybe</em> Connor, and even that wasn’t a problem. Afterall, he’s had to manage the entire site’s problematic personnel, so anything isn’t much of a hassle anymore.</p><p>Still, he could only count his fortunes on a single hand and not his misfortunes. Besides the major risks of hiding crucial information that could cause a whole lot of problems - breaches, being partial to an object due to it's family relations with staff, complacency, etcetera - Scott had no idea how Phil would react to this. Maybe he'd fly over to the site and set it ablaze, or maybe he'd breathe a disappointed sigh and delve into some weird backstory for this entire situation, or he'd turn the entire Foundation into a nice bonfire for his children to light smores around. For the sake of the Site's future, he hopes it's the second one. Nevertheless, he still had the responsibility to tell him about this, and whatever Phil's next course of action is doesn't make Scott liable for it or at least he hopes.</p><p>Scott nervously brings the telephone up to his ear, tightening his free arm around his chest as his heart jumped with every scratchy beep left the head of the phone. He had a passing thought to just suck it up and contact Dream at first but fervently shook it off. As much as Scott would like to secure the increase in site budget so that they can finally compete with the other sites, there's nothing Dream needs to know about this. Knowing Dream, he'd probably try and use it against Scott or even Phil just to eliminate some <em>pawns</em> for him from ascending to the top. Sure, he’ll catch some heat for that but it’s a matter that deserves absolute privacy away from grubby claws and silver tongues. He just needs to call Phil, tell him the news, and hope that the Foundation doesn’t collapse in the next month.</p><p>Scott would usually pen up in reports that according to military time, and his propensity had guided his mind into echoing it as he stares down at his watch, 0234, and to stop his fizzling resolve from freezing up with the cold winter, he stared at the small frost patterns that'd creep up from the translucent glass and into the chipped plastic bars, counting each and every branch with a warm smile that's beginning to grow cold. Worries of Phil not picking up the call begin to trace his mind (who'd pick up an unknown number after all), translating into physical gestures in a desperate claw at the cords of the phone and a narrowed glare down onto the snowy payphone floor. His unease was soon to be unfounded as the hissing beeps had cut short into muffled noises, but it was soon ignited once more as Scott began to speak.

</p><p>“Hey, Phil. Scott ... here.”</p><p>Scott had caught Phil at a rare time; asleep. He was slurring his words as in a daze, his voice low, raspy and fresh out of slumber, causing Scott to feel a pang of guilt in his chest. Unenthused, Phil had growled down the line with a tone that even made Scott feel a little shaken by it. “Mate, it’s two a.m. What the hell do you need.”</p><p>“It’s not something I need, really." Scott pauses. "It’s just about something I found.”</p><p>“What? Could you be any less specific, Scott?” Phil's tone shifts from bloodlust to plain old annoyance, still recovering from his dazed trance and back into lucidity, but enough to stop scaring the ever living fuck out of Scott. Phil knows that Scott wouldn't just call him in the depths of night just to prattle on about a relative getting married or something as trivial as that, so he must've assumed that Scott meant business, and he really did. Still, Scott felt a little bad for waking the man up from his well-deserved rest. Maybe he should’ve arranged for a rendezvous instead of an extemporaneous call, or called at any other hour, but it's a bit too late for that now.</p><p>As if whispering it to him in real life, he'd lean in close to the head of the telephone, lowering his voice to match Phil. “It’s about your son.”</p><p>Phil responded almost instantaneously. “Oh god- What the fuck did Wil do this time? I'm terribly sorry for all the shit he's been doing recently, Scott.”</p><p>Though Phil's response had highlighted just how much mischief Wilbur gets himself into, Scott wasn't here to break the news to him that he was going to be a grandfather to another set of kids or that he'd ate sand on the job again, and he nervously corrects him. “No, no, no. Your <em>other</em> son." Scott then realises he has another son and elucidates even further. "And It's not Techno either.”</p><p>It was followed by a quiet gasp, almost too quiet for his phone to catch but barely audible in the audio that crackled through the line. There was no point of return now. Phil's tone had darkened into something more sinister in a way that before, he'd sounded like he wanted Scott's head for waking him up, but now he'd wanted to enact a K-Class scenario upon earth and the solar system itself, his visceral grievances poorly masked with insouciance trickling out on Scott's end like toxic waste.  “My <em>third</em> son-? I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude.”</p><p>Scott knew he'd had to have known. His friendly tone had contorted into sharp contempt, anger as viscous as gasoline coating his every word as if Scott's own words were a lit match and speaking would've ignited it into a hellfire, but he didn't let it deter him. It was too hostile for it to be nonplus, and Scott couldn't afford to back down now. If Phil had assumed that Scott was playing a sick prank on him following his discovery that his grandson's in containment, Scott took umbrage to that, but if his gut feeling told him he was right, then he'd have to push a little further. He'd come this far just to tell him this and he's not going to let up so easily. Maybe Scott is prying too deep, but if he keeps up the facade, he's going to have to crowbar his head open and shove that fact into his skull.

</p><p>“We found out about him today. Y’know that SCiP Wilbur found the other day at the mall? Got his eleventh gift from Dr. Awesamtainment and it killed a whole bunch of people? We took a DNA test of him to find out more about them, any diseases, heritage, yada yada - regular procedure stuff - and he turned out to be your baby boy.”</p><p>As expected, Phil rushed to deny the claims Scott had made. "You sure they’re mine? The DNA tests could be faulty-”</p><p>“Unless you’ve been to Site-14 in about - I dunno - a month and rubbed all the medical equipment on yourself, or Lizzie used a swab with your DNA that just so happened to be on it, the tests are pretty accurate. We could always run the test again if you'd like to, Phil.”</p><p>Phil was definitely not having it. “Well, I don't need to take another test because I know I don't have any other sons! Anyways, what if the test was botched or-”</p><p>“Phil, take a good look at where you work and ask yourself that again. I’m honestly kind of insulted that you’d think we’d screw something as simple as an ancestry test up.”</p><p>Spoken like a true agent out on the field, Phil barks down the line with authority, almost intimidating Scott to back down as he begins his counterargument. “You've got a good point there but Scott, look. I don’t have any other sons. I have Wilbur and Techno and that’s it. Those are my only two children. I’m not trying to insult you or your staff, mate, but your test’s fucked. I don’t have any other sons. Get that through your thick fuckin' skull, Scott.”</p><p>Scott would've been a lot more forgiving and hang up if he'd excluded that very last line, and even if he can sympathise with Phil doesn't mean that he could forgive him for his impudence, and his pettiness swells ten folds. Maybe Phil will be the one accepting reality with that thick skull of his. “Phil, he literally looks like you! He’s got the blue eyes and blonde hair and everything! He looks just like you when you were his age!” </p><p>“And most white people with blonde hair and blue eyes look like me anyways! That means absolutely fuckin' nothing! I'm gonna hang up this call if you–”</p><p>Crap. Scott had forgotten that he'd only paid for a five minute call and it's been more than four minutes since they began arguing. He needs to ground himself. He's an adult, and he needs to calm himself down and solve this argument without letting his emotions guide him like a help dog like a rational adult. Phil is probably winded up from a lack of sleep and stressed out from work, and being informed that another one of his family member's held in captivity by the Foundation had just been the final straw. With the duration of the phone call trickling down like sand, Scott finally calms himself down. It's not his child anyways, but every parent deserves to know what's happened to their child. “– Phil. Just listen to me. This is the last chance I’ll give you. His name is Thomas but he likes being called Tommy, and he turns sixteen this year. Come to Site-14 when you get around to it, okay?”</p><p>“I already told you he's not my son–”</p><p>And the line dies before he even gets the chance to finish his sentence much to the glee of Scott, who is now settling the phone back into the telephone box. The jarring beeps pleasantly grew softer and softer until it'd clicked and shut up. Of course, he was open to the option of inserting another few cents into the telephone box if he wanted to continue the call for another five minutes if he'd lack a brain stem but Scott was growing weary and tired. Besides, the call had ended before anything got too nasty, and it gave Phil a second chance. Whether or not he takes it, that's Phil's problem.</p><p>The door creaks open as Scott wrench himself free from the tiny telephone booth and back outside where snowflakes dance across his face with abandon, an enviable trait that Scott prays he'll one day be able to flaunt off for the world when he's free from the corporate chains and terrible work hours. His path back to Bakersfield had been illuminated from the moonlight seeping from between the frosted tips of leaves, casting a looming shadow atop the rugged road. Scott reflects back, wishing he'd gotten enough time to tell him more about Tommy, or to use a snide comeback he'd just thought of in the spur of mellowing bitterness. He waves his thoughts away, hurriedly walking off the thin coat of snow and back onto stone, it's already over. Scott's said everything he needs to say (besides the cool comeback that he so desperately wanted to use but now couldn't).</p><p>All Scott could do was wait till then.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i am so burnt out from writers block and just continuously writing for days on end and school starts in a few days so i'm just writing as much as i can right now ! also lil fun fact: i used site-11 as a reference for how site-14</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>content warning for discussions about eye trauma (kinda??) and also hella rushed and not beta-read cause i'm lazy</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Ranboo!”</p><p>Though the loud susurration of the moving train had mostly masked Tubbo’s hushed exclamations, the taller man had still heard it, clumsily turning his head around to find his smaller friend. Being taller than the empire states building himself, Tubbo could easily identify the walking tower in the crowd but suspected that Ranboo couldn’t do the same, and elevated himself by rising onto his tippy toes.</p><p>This plan of action failed spectacularly. Ranboo eyes were on a wild goose chase trying to spot Tubbo, while Tubbo was just embarrassing himself by just rising to the average height of most people in the train.</p><p>Eventually, Ranboo stopped looking and asked. “Tubbo? Erm. Where are you?”</p><p>“I’m-” Tubbo remembers that he isn’t anchored to the train’s floor. Traversing his way through thick crowds of people, he tugs tightly onto his fellow junior researcher’s coat, craning his head almost parallel to the ceiling to face his taller counterpart. “-here.”</p><p>Ranboo’s friendly tone thickens, saturating his low baritone with sickly cheerfulness, which still catches Tubbo off guard even after the thousandth time hearing it. How he sounds this lively at seven in the morning is the biggest anomaly this entire facility contains. “Ah. Hey. Good morning, Tubbo.”</p><p>“Ranboo!” Tubbo smiles and hopes that under that monochrome mask of his that Ranboo is smiling back at him.</p><p>Ranboo, tall enough to reach the stars if he just got on his tippy toes, looms over the crowd with his countenance hidden behind a monochrome mask Tubbo had bought him for Christmas a year ago and a pair of cheap sunglasses. Usually, he’s the poster child for every spy movie with his intimidating height, but today, he looks like a ragdoll abandoned to the whims of a hurricane. His chestnut hair has tangled and curled so high up it’s barely touching the ceiling, his movements are slow and dead, and his coat and flora shirt are unironed and still a little damp, which hugs his thin frame ever so slightly.</p><p>The quiet hums of the monorail train takes him to the window where flashes of orange light mixes in with the grey tunnel walls, reminding him of the banalities of work. Even with the ceiling being coated in LED lights, it’s gloomy and dim, both the crowd’s general mood and the physical condition of the train. A technicolour of lull fills him; exhaustion, boredom and listlessness, each of them drowning him to the point where Tubbo was pretty sure that his brain leaked out either his right or left ear. In a fit of boredom, he finds himself tapping the train walls, talking about something he’s not even thinking about. </p><p>Tubbo breathes in the stuffy air and sighs. “You wanna know something? I really hate talking to you.”</p><p>The taller seems surprised, crying out an exasperated, “Wh- What? Wait, why?”</p><p>“It’s ‘cause my neck hurts when I do. You’re freakishly tall. Like <em>inhumanly</em> tall.”</p><p>Relieved, Ranboo chuckles. “Wilbur hates it too.”</p><p>“At least he doesn’t have to tilt his head up to face like- the sky. Oh, and Wilbur’s also really tall. God, I am just so tiny and small next to you lot and that fact makes me really sad," Tubbo places his finger on his chin, pretending to ruminate. "But you know what? I won’t let that bother me! That just means you’re the bigger target when a containment breach happens. You’re gonna wish you were a feet shorter when SCP-953 eats you cause you’re taller.”</p><p>Ranboo seems a little overwhelmed. “Oh. Erm. You’re really making me sound like some sort of lightning conductor or something. Am I going to be your meat shield when a containment breach happens?”</p><p>“Wait, you aren’t already?” Tubbo pouts, comically puffing up his cheeks to resemble that of a squirrel. “I thought you would do that for me, Ranny.”</p><p>Presumably frowning, Ranboo scowls at the shorter, though Tubbo could only really guess. “Of course not! I like living and breathing air, thank you very much!” Ranboo shout-whispers in consideration of the other passengers. “What kind of dumb question is that?”</p><p>Tubbo crosses his arms. “You’re a tyrant, Ranboo.”’</p><p>Ranboo raises a finger to point at Tubbo. “What do you mean <em>I’m</em> a tyrant? You’re the-”</p><p>Before Ranboo could finish his sentence, the speakers jolts back to life, a sharp burst of noise grabbing both of the teens’ attention. Rumbling gravelly as it reverberates through the tight space, the pre-recorded message states that they’ll soon arrive at their destination and to please mind the gap, winding Tubbo up for what will be another long day. </p><p>Ranboo seemed to be a little upset at not being able to finish his sentence, though Tubbo could hazard a guess as to what he was going to say anyways. Tubbo clings on to the fabric around Ranboo’s waist, which Ranboo kinda hates but doesn’t mind.</p><p>“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted by that, you’re the tyrant! You’re the one who makes their study group and the on-site medical team write up eighty pages each to document several experiment that didn’t even make it past the first revision and force them to stay up for ungodly amounts of hours to test some stupid hypothesis!”</p><p><em>Blame site procedures, not me, </em> Tubbo thought to himself. Niki is way too nice on them.</p><p>The train begins to slow, crawling against the slim train track as the walls of the train station creeps in, lukewarm LED lights illuminating the grey concrete walls and posters with tattered corners hung up above filled trash bins. They’ve officially entered Block C, and the short scientist would hate nothing more than to brave through the crowd again. Tubbo likes the authentic subway feel of the train station; grey, ugly and viciously boring but in a positive way.</p><p>Seeing as they’re soon to alight, Tubbo decides to get his final words in and quietly savours that fact as his lips crack into an even wider smile. “I mean is it really that bad? You’re making me out to sound like the bad guy here and frankly, I disagree.”</p><p>Though Tubbo could sense a little indignation from Ranboo’s side, it was mostly light-hearted banter, which makes Tubbo feel a little bit better about himself. Tubbo must admit that being able to understand Ranboo’s emotions without having to rely on facial cues based on instinct and tone alone does make him feel a bit like a mini James Bond.</p><p>The speaker croaks back into activity, telling them to mind their gap on the way out as the train slows down to a snail’s pace. The train doors crack open, people pouring out of every exit, cueing a mass exodus of weary and dead-eyed researchers and roughened military personnel, while others on the night shift scramble in through the dimly lit doors, causing a weird abrasion of people both entering and leaving that feels like walking in waist swamp water.</p><p>Ranboo sighs, disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to get his piece in until they’ve reached Block C’s elevator lobby and then pushes through the crowd with Tubbo clinging on for dear life. The smog of people was more than nauseating, coupled with the rough movement of the passing people as their arms grazes his face and push against him made him pray. It’s even worse on the elevator, so they opt to take the stairs down and into the lobby.</p><p>Eventually, they enter into the blaring lights of the lobby, a bustling area that’s not as sweaty or crammed as the train station but still a pain in the ass to get through. It’s staple is the lack of any actual amenities except for a unisex bathroom, lift lobbies that spills over with people, and minimalism that makes you want to cry your eyes out.</p><p>They climb down the stairs, careful to not bump into others. Despite Tubbo’s protesting tugs to take the lift down, Ranboo stubbornly drags them both to the stairwell and Tubbo accepts his fate to aching legs for the next few days, trudging down the stairs as Ranboo takes the time in the almost empty stairwell and continues the conversation from earlier.</p><p>“I mean you’re not the bad guy, I’d actually argue that you’re quite the opposite, but I am going to cry if I have to deal with eyeball spiders again.”</p><p>“Oh god, not the eyeball spiders! That was just absolutely horrible!” Tubbo hides his face behind his other hand. The poor chimpanzee they’d carve the eye out of just for that made Tubbo’s stomach roll. “Why haven’t they just burnt them all yet?”</p><p>“Cause, <em>apparently</em>, eye spiders that eat eyes and lay eggs in the sockets of the eye they just extracted from need to be researched more. Clearly, that needs a lot of research. They should conduct a test to see if they’re all fire resistant.”</p><p>“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. I don’t wanna think about it.” Tubbo shields his ears but the ghost of his words linger between the tight air. He shouldn’t get this queasy over eye spiders given his track record but he absolutely is and will do so for the foreseeable future because they’re creepy and gross, and the thought of it has fear crawling down his back. “Let's agree to never bring <em>that</em> up again.”</p><p>“Agreed.” Ranboo shudders. “Oh yeah, Phil told me he was coming over today.”</p><p>Tubbo’s eyes widen. “Wait, when? And nobody told me?”</p><p>“It’s not an official visit. He’s just gonna drop by with the rest of Alpha-4 to replenish their resources or something and then carry on with their mission.”</p><p>“What.” Tubbo pouts, stretching both syllables and consonants thin with a fleeting smile. His line with Phil was always dead given the elusivity of his job and the struggle to meet the demands of the O5, and any chance to meet the myth - Wilbur’s dad and video game enthusiast - himself was always cut short due to their busy schedules. The longest chat of theirs lasted for approximately fifty-two seconds, with small talk and bidding their goodbyes. This time will be different however. Surely he’s going to stay for a while to recover. Surely.</p><p>He hopes his earnesty will win over whatever remains of God is left. “Will I be able to talk to him? I really, really, really, wanna see if he has any embarrassing childhood photos or stories of Wilbur.”</p><p>“Is this revenge for the whole <em>‘space exploration is useless’</em> debate you guys had?”</p><p>Tubbo nods his head and half-jokingly states, “Yep. I’m still kinda pissed at him for that.”</p><p>Ranboo ponders on this, cupping his chin with his thin fingers. “I’m not sure.” Ranboo says, crushing Tubbo’s hopes and dreams. “Phil told me it’ll be a pretty brief visit because they just need to grab some supplies cause the estimated amount wasn’t enough, and to tell no one- <em>Oh, yeah.</em>”</p><p>As the words echo in the silent stairway, Tubbo's cherubic face cracks into a devious smile, indulging himself in his friend’s little slip up. “Oh no, Ranboo. You’ve really screwed the pooch now, haven’t you?”</p><p>If he’d removed his mask, Tubbo would’ve seen how flustered and nervous he’d gotten, but his tone was a good enough indicator that he’d crave nothing more than his embarrassment to swallow him whole. “Please don’t tell anyone.” He murmurs, his lanky body dipping low and his shoulders slanted downwards. “Phil will feed me to the wolves.”</p><p>“Your secret’s safe with me, big man.” Tubbo laughs. Oh, this is too fun. “<em>Unless.</em>”</p><p>Somehow more flustered than before, Ranboo cowers. “Please, Oh god no.”</p><p>Tubbo comically strokes his chin, putting on a pretense of pensivity as Ranboo shuffles in his steps, picking up the pace. “I won’t tell him unless you stop calling me a tyrant - which I’m not, by the way.”</p><p>“Yes. Please, please, please. I agree. Please don’t tell Phil I told you.”</p><p>“And also buy my lunch for me please. I’ve been forgetting to eat recently and I’m trying to not. Wilbur said it’s not healthy only eating maltesers every day.”</p><p>“You’re really like a tyr- nevermind. I can do that.”</p><p>Tubbo smiles. “Get me the one with the bacon and loads of cheese.”</p><p>“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” Ranboo sighs.</p><p>Descending down the winding staircase to the earth’s core, the faded metal door peers out from behind an incline of metal steps, once a sleek coat of black but now a dark grey. As expected, his muscles grew taut and aches, and Tubbo could only hope that a bit of corporate duties will help distract him from the pain. Ranboo doesn’t seem to mind it, having adjusted to climbing down these stairs even without skipping a few, another superpower Ranboo seems to possess.</p><p>They’ve reached floor three - the floor that’s white walls seemed to stretch on forever and floodlights carefully positioned to burn your retinas to the point of permanent blindness. It’s just as bad as the lobby, if not worse. There’s a usual river of people near the right side with the quiet susurration of chatter that closely resembles a running stream, with a small trickle of people streaming into the left. Ranboo joins the small confluence to go to the research labs, his barely combed bed hair sticking out of the sea of people.</p><p>Tubbo, now standing awkwardly next to the stairwell door, walks over to the left side of the floor, waving his hand over Research Lab 5’s sensor and sliding in, hoping that maybe today’s the day he can finally talk to Phil, or in the very least, not boring.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tubbo, for his unfaltering tenacity and persistence, has been rewarded from whatever deity is still alive with the titular advent of Phil, a decorated MTF Commander with an equally as accomplished group and father to many, in the flesh. Not through a fantastical tale, a small whisper of news, or a passing greeting, but Phil himself. Too bad he hadn’t clarified that he had wanted to actually talk to the guy.</p><p>Despite his stubbornness and apparent charms, Tubbo couldn’t even get the tight-lipped man to even tell him about his day - as one of Tubbo’s many overtures to close friendships, he brought up Phil’s most recent catch he’d heard about through the grapevine and got a desultory, “<em>Thank you,</em>”  and he continued to read over the articles Scott fished out for him - which confused the teen wiz. But then again, for every star in the sky, Wilbur has lied about his personal life twice that amount, but Tubbo couldn’t discount his regalings about Phil. There was too much passion for him to just be lying about that, right?</p><p>Tubbo flicked his gaze off the bickering two and onto the even messier desk to hopefully avoid them noticing his death glare. Isn’t he supposed to be super cool and super friendly and really chill to be around? The only thing chill was the cold shoulder Tubbo’s been shown for the past few minutes, something Tubbo hadn’t expected given Wilbur’s assurance that he and Phil would be best friends. Tubbo could only shrug it off to there being an even bigger issue at hand.</p><p>Both Scott, Assistant Site Director of Research, and Phil Watson, MTF Alpha-4 Commander, were both standing in the research lab he was currently occupying without a formal notice of their arrival beforehand, scrutinising every single sentence in his reports as if the world depended on it. Scott pops by to check on Tubbo, but judging from their somber attitudes, it was far from a casual chit chat they were looking for. That could only mean one thing - he’d fucked up big time, they fucked up big time, or something’s fucked up big time. They’re all equally as bad as the other.</p><p>Tubbo silently digs into his BLT sandwich that Ranboo brought him earlier. He misses that lanky fellow and his charming awkwardness, desperately craving for some respite from this silent and foreboding atmosphere that’s now swelling within the lab walls. He watches as Scott and Phil vague at something clearly discussed beforehand, with all the inexplicit mentions of some boy - hopefully not Tubbo - and something belonging to Phil, heated exchanges just seconds away from developing into a full blown argument. Hopefully, Tubbo can just leave after they get what they want from here and nibbles at his sandwich.</p><p>Standing as he is right now, Phil didn’t look as genial as Wilbur made him out to be. He’s got blonde hair, blue eyes, but that’s the only thing Wilbur’s description and him had in common. His lips were pulled thin into a frown and his eyes, hidden by unkempt hair, were narrow in frustration. He didn’t seem patient drumming his fingers rapidly against his arm, nor did he seem genial with that mean scowl of his. Tubbo shrinks back into his lab coat. Wilbur’s love for theatre seeped into his storytelling too, Tubbo supposes.</p><p>In a spur of both unease and boredom, Tubbo texts Ranboo from underneath his desk, trying to distract himself from the increasingly loud discussion the two adults were having, lamenting about how terrible the meeting was going. Ranboo sympathises and asks if he could pop by and save him from it, to which Tubbo responds with an inquiry in which he’d show up with a white horse and shining armour. He tosses a glance over to the two and it’s safe to say that they were getting nowhere quick. The subtle hints of enmity in their smiles and abrasive words had now blown into scary scowls and even harsher words.</p><p>Tubbo bit his lip. He really wants his <em>white knight</em> to show up and save him right now.</p><p>Just as Tubbo was about to excuse himself to the toilet to flee, Scott redirected his glower over to him, attempting to soften his glare in hopes of appearing less frightening. It was a futile attempt however. “Tubbo, could you escort me and Phil over to SCP-89041’s containment cell?”</p><p>Tubbo doesn’t really want to go with them. “Can’t you just- y’know, go there yourselves?” He didn’t like how his confidence trailed off in the end, but it should get his message across clearly.</p><p>Scott wasn’t taking no for an answer though. “Tubbo, we can’t go into an item’s containment cell without a researcher participating in the research on said item present to supervise us. That’s super dangerous and a breach of protocol.”</p><p>“It’s considered safe, is it not? There’s no dangers that-”</p><p> </p><p>Scott butts in. “Even if it’s safe, Tubbo. We can’t risk it.”</p><p>“I could just write up some formal letter or something that states me giving you permission to check it out and stuff. I don’t have to go with you guys, right?” </p><p>“Trust me Tubbo, I don’t want you to go either, but we need you to.” Scott murmurs. “Just … go, okay? I promise it won’t be long. I’ll get you some snacks as thanks later.”</p><p>Tubbo grumbles. Scott’s being really nice to him right now and Tubbo’s been raised well and knows he should reciprocate his kindness, but the hostile tension and loud discussion bordering on shouting is just too much for Tubbo’s poor head to bear. He can’t deny his superior, however, and he nods. Scott murmurs a string of thanks, which is nice to hear after his chilly exchange with Phil.</p><p>No one talked on the way over to the Containment sector. They carried on their cold war through a passing glare or a simple frown, communicating their resentment wordlessly almost akin to the way Tubbo and Ranboo quietly understood the other, which made the elevator ride down a lot more stuffier than usual. Tubbo would’ve reached out to Ranboo to voice out his discontent, but being sandwiched between the two proved difficult for him to discreetly spew text-vomit onto Ranboo.</p><p>Finally, they arrive at the specific containment cell - Tommy’s cell. Drawing his breath, he swipes his hand over the sensor, tentatively stepping into the grey hallway as if approaching a minefield. There was no explanation for his unease other than the one caused by the two, so he tried to stifle his hesitation with the thought of them not existing, an endeavour that failed before it started.</p><p>Tubbo doesn’t (and <em>maybe</em> doesn't desire to) know why they’re here. Looking at it logically, their behaviour has been rather odd for the past half an hour. They didn’t post a notice of their arrival, Phil didn’t bring his flock with him nor did Scott bring any company with him, they seemed more than eager to kick Ranboo out of the lab and exclude Tubbo from their conversation, they’re both unusually angry, and his sixth sense reliably informs him that something is amiss. They’re operating as if wanting to be incognito, which Tubbo doesn’t particularly like.</p><p>Despite the Foundation’s seemingly mercilessly effective and methodical ethos, mistakes are scarily common. Some are sleight and are able to evade the omnipresent eyes of Foundation, and most are catastrophic - mass of personnel and civilian lives, heavy blows to Foundation resources, a rip in their current reality’s time and space, and the list goes on. Of course, the latter are punished severely, but the reasoning still stands. They’re allowed to make a mistake (though maybe not for the distortion of time and space, but maybe whatever they’re dealing with). The Foundation is cold, not inhumane.</p><p>It led Tubbo to muse on the issue a little further; they’re both pissed at something, something that includes both the item Tubbo is heading the researching on and something of personal belonging to Phil, but neither of them have consulted him on anything regarding the item or asked if it’d exhibited any specific abnormalities outside of being some generic white boy who’s the regular receiver of gifts from Dr. Awesamtainment. It led him to believe that it’s not something to do with the boy itself, however, but something deeper, maybe Phil had screwed up while recovering the item, or Scott had screwed up in requesting to capture this specific item. It made more sense if Phil fucked up because why else would he be here if it weren’t for him messing something up.</p><p>Anyways, Tubbo just wants this to be over. It really doesn’t matter what their mistakes are in the end. At worst, the site won’t receive the funding they need to improve the infrastructure and expand like they’ve planned to for another month and Phil would be removed from this case, and at best, they’ll both receive a stern warning. They should really thank the total drought of abled personnel that could replace either of them or not they’d be gone within an hour.</p><p>Pulling him out of his thoughts was Scott with a wavering smile. It’s nice that Scott is still trying to be nice to Tubbo, so he complies, wanting to get himself out of this and head back to the dormitory and mess around with Ranboo. Tubbo maneuvers over to the paging button through the clutter of office chairs, turning over to the two with a small smile. “I need to call in some guards just in case things go south.” Tubbo explained. “Could you wait a bit longer?”</p><p>“That’s fine with me, Tubbo.”</p><p>Pressing the button, he leans into the microphone and requests for two guards to accompany them when they enter the containment cell. Tubbo’s earlier musing still lingers around his mind however, and his undying curiosity gets the better of him.</p><p>“So, why are you guys - erm - doing this-? Did something happen or?”</p><p>“It’s- It’s really nothing, Tubbo. You don’t have to worry about any of it.” Scott unsuccessfully brushes it off. “It’s just that we’ve made a tiny mistake. Nothing too big.”</p><p>“Is ... <em>this</em> above my position - my paygrade, if you will - to know about?”</p><p>“No, but it’s a personal thing. Just work with us for just a little longer, okay Tubbo?”</p><p>There goes his conjecture of them fucking up, “M’kay,” but that begs the question; what is this <em>personal thing</em> they’re talking about? He's just dying to know at this point. Tubbo mindlessly waves his hand in front of the scanner to allow them to enter the cell as the guards cautiously stand guard by the door, too engrossed with his own speculations and theories - it’s in his blood after all. Maybe the item was Phil’s son, Tubbo joked before quickly dismissing it. He would’ve seen it in some report somewhere on his desk. Maybe the gift the item received had killed Phil’s entire family and he was here to avenge them. Tubbo shook his head. Scott would’ve never entertained that idea ever in a million years, and Wilbur and Techno are still alive and kicking to his knowledge.</p><p>Too caught up in his head, he’d almost missed the guards’ questioning gazes being thrown into the surveillance feed into the room, and Tubbo looks up at them.</p><p>“Erm. Anything wrong with the security footage?” Tubbo gestures towards the object of their vigilant eyes, the television screen illuminating a genial conversation between two adults and a child. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. “Is there- y’know, any abnormalities and stuff?”</p><p>“Not really.” Their muffled voice responds. It’s a familiar voice and Tubbo thinks he might just know who he is, but the visor from their helmet has obstructed their face, making it hard to identify who exactly it is. “It’s just my first time seeing Phil - in the flesh. Would’ve thought he’d be more… kind, I guess, but it’s probably ‘cause of something going on. What is it by the way?”</p><p><em>If it’s who he thinks it is, he won’t mind him asking.</em> “Hmm. Karl?” Tubbo asks.</p><p>“Yep. Security Guard Karl Jacobs reporting for duty.” Karl comedically salutes, elbows just shy of hitting the hallway wall. “Hey, Tubbo.”</p><p>“Hey, Karl. And, I’m not quite sure - I don’t think I’m at libar- liberty, to discuss it and stuff, but that has never stopped me before.” Tubbo murmurs, dropping formalities like he did with his voice with gossip in mind, taking a bite into a very cold and very eaten sandwich. It’s been a hot minute since they’ve actually gossiped about what was going on site, and Tubbo’s lip was already itching to tell him all about today. “It’s got something to do with Phil and it’s like, personal, at least that’s what Scott said. They were both screaming for hours. What they were screaming about I don’t know.”</p><p>“Wait, but if they were screaming, you should’ve caught a few tinsy winsy bits of information, right?” Karl pokes at him, obviously interested for more details that Tubbo is only a few </p><p>“I didn’t want to listen in to their conversation cause that’s not a nice thing to do, so I was trying to focus on texting Ranboo.”</p><p>Karl overlooked the glaring hypocrisy of his statement, and as subtle as an earthquake, honed in on what he wanted to know most. “Hmm. What do you think happened?”</p><p>“I honestly don't know. I thought at first that like Scott screwed up big time or something like that and was trying to fix it in secret because of the whole approval for the increase in budget thing, right?”</p><p>Karl hums in agreement, leaning in closer to the teen as he wildly speculates. It eggs Tubbo on - he’s always been a sucker for gossip and shitty television drama, and he feels like a crazy conspiracy theory who was right all along - and his mouth wanders. “And then Scott tells me it’s personal, which leads me to believe that it’s got something to do with Phil and the SCP ‘cause why else would they be in here in the item’s containment cell if it didn’t involve him, yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah, that is super strange. Maybe the SCiP is someone Phil knows personally?”</p><p>“Scott wouldn’t have been so mean then, but does explain a few things.” Tubbo licks the cheese off of his fingers.</p><p>“Okay, okay, what if - this might sound crazy but you have to trust me on this one - that’s his son.”</p><p>Tubbo giggles. “To be honest, I thought about that but Wilbur’s never mentioned having another brother other than Techno. Plus, I would’ve seen a report on it somewhere.”</p><p>“Oh. You’re right. I knew that.” Karl cups his chin and Tubbo could just imagine his face as he tried to invent a new theory. “Okay, okay. This time I’m really right and everything I’m about to say is definitely true and you have to trust me on that. What if the SCiP is like - erm, I don’t know, is a really important corporate guy?”</p><p>“Huh. I didn’t think about that. But the state Overseer for the- wait. I think I’m getting what you’re putting down.” Though Karl wouldn’t (and shouldn’t regardless of how sharp his ears are) know, Tubbo could hazard a guess as to what bigwig it might be. The O5s. It kinda makes sense with the O5s being all magical, mysterious and whatnot, and because no one has ever seen their faces before or know who they are, there’s just a tiny possibility they’d mistake one of them for a SCiP. Weird that it’s some scrawny homeless teen.</p><p>Karl notices Tubbo’s newfound pensive mood and grins widely. “You’re getting it!”</p><p>“But that doesn’t explain the eyewitness reports of them conjuring some sort of toy demon out of nowhere. Also, someone would’ve interfered, right? I don’t think they’d let one of their super important guys be taken back into the Foundation as an SCP, no?”</p><p>“And that’s why they’re being so secretive about it! Think about it, Tubbo! Who knows how many times the Foundation has done something like this?”</p><p>“There’s so many other things they could’ve done though. The documents would’ve been stricken out, they could’ve assigned a different researcher to the item, or if it’s that bad I would’ve had my memories wiped of all this as the lead researcher of the item.” Tubbo countered. “But seeing as I’m still here to escort them to the item’s cell and I’m still the lead researcher I think, I don’t think that’s possible.”</p><p>Karl sighs melodramatically. “Then what happened?”</p><p>“I really don’t know, Karl.” Tubbo murmurs, and he watched Karl deflate like a sad balloon. He’ll have to make do with this info for the next time he frequents the grape vine. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“It’s okay, Tubbo, pal.”</p>
<p>Tubbo mindlessly dragged himself into the empty train station before settling down on a wooden bench. He’d been worked overtime and Scott had reimbursed his lost time with dinner, and when he’d finished his last bite of the impressive cheeseburger that Scott had insisted he’d try out, it was already one in the morning.</p><p>He had dragged himself to the station with much less complaints than being dragged out. It’s quiet, with only the disembodied and staticy voice and the distant rustling of the train to accompany him, no friends and definitely no sleep, though he was already accustomed to dreary late nights by himself. He surveyed the drab brick walls, instinctually reaching for his dead phone for something to keep his mind occupied before realising that it was as good as a rock. If he’d known his phone would’ve died then, Tubbo would’ve just asked Scott to deliver a burger to him instead but there’s no use complaining about it now.</p><p>The massive fur coat that was totally his and not Ranboo’s (no matter how much he insists it being his) scratches at the back of his neck yet not wanting to brave the harsh cold, he tugs at the body of the parka jacket. The itch only fuels his mild irritation now seemingly palpable in the crisp night air. He begins to fiddle with his dead phone, wondering if his tall and lanky friend was concerned that he hasn’t returned yet before replacing it with contemplations of the events earlier.</p><p>It intrigued him to no ends. He can only help but teeter at the edge of his seat as he tries to string up any explanation. It’s the most trivial thing ever and smells of a terrible soap opera plot - a small private altercation that hints at something much more personal than they would like to - but they pay Tubbo to speculate and prod things with proverbial sticks or people. They wouldn’t pay him if they didn’t want him doing this, ergo, Tubbo will prod, poke and postulate until he’s told off by his superiors. A perfectly reasonable and logical train of thought only feasible in the precocious mind of a child prodigy.</p><p>But it ends there. His excitement, his wild theories, his inquisitive stares. It means nothing if he can’t even wrangle out a confirmation between any of them. Scott was very tight-lipped on the matter despite Tubbo's best efforts, and Phil just glared at him. Tubbo sighs at the pitiful memory of being ignored by Phil. It's time for Tubbo to put away his ambitions of becoming a tabloid journalist and put on his science coat like the true man of science that he is.</p><p>A small but overwhelming sense of disappointment pulls him from his thoughts and back into the train station. It's still quite dark out - even the birds aren't crying at this time of the morning. His leather boots grazed the concrete floor, which by now has already turned from a drab white to pale grey, and he lets his eyes wander as far as he lets his imagination, sweeping by the tough brick walls that have lost their red shade a few decades ago and past the cork boards dimly illuminated by the mellow fluorescent lights to the packed rubbish bin. It's so excitingly ordinary. The lull of this ugly station is exciting. Tubbo, now fully pensive, begins to reflect back on his day, remembering Karl which then lead straight to gossip.</p><p>Gossip is a generator of people’s intrigue onsite - Karl seemed heavily interested in the crumbs Tubbo dusted his way, and Tubbo couldn’t deny that he too felt similarly to Karl - when the only other things one can get intrigued by in this god forsaken facility is the total humiliation of reality and all known theories and the devil’s spawns. Even anomalies begin to seem dull after it’s been shoved into routine, and the threat of being killed by the items even classified as ‘safe’ really kills any fun in the job. Anyone who actually likes their job in the Foundation should be fired, Tubbo reckons, cause they're most definitely serial killers or seriously disturbed. Meticulously documenting eighty-seven pages for an experiment and then passing them through multiple revisions, having to monitor E Class Personnel if there are any, confirm his findings with the research group and the medical staff or any relevant professional, combing through reams of other experiments, reconciling the information with additional albeit small-scale testing, compound any data as laconically as possible, and then repeating that cycle again. Its genuine hell. </p><p>Gossip, on the other hand, is death-free, low effort, and just as interesting. There's no paperwork in sight of any social gatherings, and there’s no citations or extensive research needed for it. The grapevine doesn’t require one to think much but to just absorb all it’s unbridled tidings and tale like drifting upon a calm sea. </p><p>Tubbo stretches his arms, his coat slightly slipping off his shoulders as his arms reach into the sky. He adjusts the coat and plays around with the faux fur, growing annoyed with the ten minute delay of the train’s arrival.</p><p>The trains were cool and functional on paper but a total mess outside of it with the frequent delays and terrible arrival times. The physical state was terrible too - rust began to creep up from it's sides and it squeaked like a dying rat whenever the train arrive. He'd pen numerous complaints of varying degrees of professionalism to Scott (and impassioned rants to Ranboo on late nights), but nothing came of it. Tubbo hopes they’ll be rid of this dysfunctional mess when the expansion plans are put into motion, maybe they’ll even get those magnet trains like those in Japan, or just teleport or something. It's embarrassing how the Foundation can house several reality-benders, eldritch horrors, and robotic gods, but they can't even teleport yet.</p><p>Tubbo groans. However much he yearns for a brighter future, he’s stuck with this shoddy thing for now, and so, Tubbo idles by behind the yellow line as he waits for the train to arrive.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i just finished up an old draft i found and i had a lot of fun . sorry for how compact this entire thing is and how terribly paced and pithy this whole chapter was. no beta again i don't really care much about this so i don't really need one . also /p btw.</p>
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